Fifth Ave 02 - Running of the Bulls (29 page)

"She makes it her business to," Marty said.
 
"It's what she does."

"Think they saw something?"

"It's what I'm hoping."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Actually, there is," Marty said. "What are you doing after this?"

"Bob was going to buy me a drink but I can get out of that," she said.
 
"Bob's a pushover.
 
He loves me, too."

"Enough to Tweet you?"

"Oh, please.
 
He'd Tweet the hell out of me if he was straight."

Marty smiled.
 
"Too much information.
 
If he's willing to take a rain check, I was wondering if you'd drive over to Carra Wolfhagen's and keep tabs on her husband.
 
He's staying with her."

That was enough for Jennifer.
 
She took him by the arm and led him farther down the street, away from the other reporters.
 
"Wolfhagen's there?" she said in a low voice.
 
"But they can't stand each other."

"You think?"

"Why would she let him stay with her?
 
She's divorcing him.
 
Everyone knows how they feel about each other.
 
You'd think he'd find some other place to stay."

"It is interesting, isn't it?"

"What else do you know?
 
You're holding back--I can tell."

"I'll tell you everything later," he said.
 
"But only if you'll watch him."

"Of course, I'll watch him."

They walked back toward the crowd of reporters.

"Bring your cell," Marty said.
 
"Call me on mine and follow him if he leaves.
 
I don't know when I'll be able to join you, but I'll get there eventually."
 
He looked at her.
 
"You're okay with this?"

She frowned at him. "Oh, please.
 
It's not like I haven't pulled surveillance before.
 
Remember Gotti?"

How could he forget?
 
At that early point in her career, she may have been a young reporter, but she'd tailed the mob boss for three weeks without getting caught.
 
She'd gone undercover and dated the man's son to extract information about the family.
 
She won a Peabody for her report, which exposed sides to Gotti he never wanted made public.
 
And it made her a star.

She squeezed his hand.
 
"I'll see you after you interview DeSoto and Adams.
 
It'll be fun, like old times."
 
She winked at him.
 
"And do me a favor--wear those tight jeans I like so well, the ones that show off your ass.
 
You never know.
 
You might just get lucky again."

With that, she crossed the street, stood in front of the camera, skimmed her notes and took a breath as the camera's floodlights flashed on.
 
Bob pointed a finger at her and Jennifer began speaking to half of New York, as did the other reporters around her.

*
 
*
 
*

Marty turned to the building behind him.

Emilio DeSoto's home was tall and narrow and painted bright white--bright white door, bright white bricks, bright white awnings over the wide white windows.
 
The steps were painted white, the trim was painted white, the wrought iron railing that ran alongside the house was painted white.
 
The only hint of color here was on the door--the number "21" in pearl gray.
 
Marty knocked twice and waited.
 
Experience told him that gaining entrance to this home might take awhile.

E, as he was known in the New York art circle, was one of Manhattan's premiere minimalist artists. A close friend of Gloria's, his mere presence at her first showing had given her career the kind of boost every debut artist desires.
 
He had purchased the smallest of her paintings--a tiny stamp in a collection of sprawling canvases--and whispered in her ear all evening.
 
When asked by the media what he thought of this new artist's
 
work, E surprised them all by answering in a complete sentence: "Her work is arresting."

Her work is arresting. Those four words helped Gloria and the gallery net seven figures in sales by evening's end.

The door opened slowly, carefully, finally exposing a sliver of E in white silk pajamas, white satin slippers, his head and eyebrows shaved clean. He was a thin slip of a man with skin so pale, it was almost translucent. They'd met only once--here, for tea with Gloria--but E hadn't spoke to him, only stared when Marty commented on the man's paintings.

Now, Marty wondered how in hell he was going to get this odd man to talk to him about Judge Wood and what he may have seen over the years as her neighbor.
 
But Gloria promised he would talk.
 
"Death fascinates him," she said.
 
"It's a major force in his work, especially during his black period, which coincidentally coincided with mine.
 
And he's different when he's alone.
 
He's different when he doesn't have an audience.
 
You'll see.
 
You won't be able to shut him up."

But looking at E squinting at him, frowning at all of the colors that made up Marty's clothes, he couldn't be sure.
 
"Thanks for seeing me, E," he said.
 
"I know you're busy and I appreciate it."

E said nothing.
 
He looked past Marty to Wood's home, moved to speak, but then pursed his lips into a tight pale line and said nothing. He lowered his gaze and with an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, invited Marty inside.

A long white corridor stretched before them like a tunnel of snow.
 
Strategically placed lights were hidden in the ceiling, concealing shadows, casting others. There was no furniture, no paintings on the walls, no signs of life present or past.
 
E locked the door behind them and wordlessly turned to walk down the blinding hallway.
 

Intrigued, Marty followed.
 

How did this little, peculiar man survive in New York?
 
Was it all an act, as Gloria suggested, or was it something deeper, some unexplained disturbance he had never resolved?
 

As they moved forward, Marty watched the man list left, then right.
 
They reached the end of the hallway and E's shoulder struck the edge of the doorway.
 
The blow took him by surprise and he lurched sideways, almost falling into the room but righting himself at the last moment.

He tripped across the living area, bumped into one of the few white chairs arranged in the center of the room, sent it toppling and pushed forward, toward the table along the far white wall.
 

Marty couldn't tell if the man were sick, drunk or simply unable to make out the subtle shading that defined where this chair was, that couch, that table.
 
He stood in the doorway and watched E grasp the small white urn at the end of a table.
 
He unscrewed the lid, reached inside and removed a short white stick.
 

The stick was a joint.
 
Marty stepped inside and watched E fire it up with the white lighter beside the urn.
 
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the blue smoke rising before him in thick little clouds.
 
It wasn't until after he had exhaled that he finally looked at Marty and said to him in a thin, exasperated voice:
 
"Glaucoma."
 
He sighed and for a moment, Marty thought he understood him.

"I need to ask you a few questions," he said.
 
"But if now isn't a good time, I can come back when you're feeling better."

E screwed up his face and sucked harder.
 
He coughed and brought a hand to his chest, which he gently patted once.

Marty looked at the fingernails on that hand.
 
With the exception of the thumbnail, which was clipped close, the nails on the remaining four fingers were long and slender, curving and yellow.
 
Marty glanced at the nails on the other hand and saw that they had been chewed to the skin.

And E sucked.

"Did you know Kendra Wood?" Marty asked.

E finished the joint, snuffed the roach in a clean glass ashtray and put a finger to the very tip of his narrow nose.
 
His eyes were clouded and unfocused.
 
His body occupied space, but his mind was far away.
 
He coughed again and gazed across the room toward Marty.
 
His upper lip twitched.

Marty wasn't sure if the man had heard him.
 
"You've been her neighbor for six years. It would be helpful if you could tell me anything you might know about her."

E turned his head and traced a finger along the urn's curving white lid.
 
He gave no indication of pending response.

"Perhaps I should be more blunt," Marty said, keeping the frustration from his voice.
 
"Last night, Judge Wood was found dead in her bedroom.
 
Her head was severed and, until this morning, was missing.
 
The evidence suggests she lived two separate lives.
 
I'd like to know if you've seen anything unusual in her behavior over the years."

"Yes," said E.

Finally, thought Marty.
 
"Could you tell me about that?" he said.
 
"What have you seen?"

"Things," said E.

"Such as?" asked Marty.

"People," said E.

"Who?" asked Marty.

"Rodents," said E.
 

And that stopped Marty.
 

He watched a wave of disturbance flash across E's face, which was somehow paler than before.
 
The air in the room seemed to shift and turn in on itself.
 
Marty could sense it tightening.
 
"I need you to be more specific," he said.
 
"Can you do that for me?"

"No."

"She was decapitated, E."

"Life lops heads."

"Please, tell me what you know."

"I know they'll be looking for a new judge."

"And I know your routine is an act."

E recoiled.

"Gloria told me that you were a good man.
 
She told me that you would help me.
 
She said that death fascinates you."

"Life is the new death."

"What did you mean by 'rodents'?"

E's eyes flicked up to meet his.
 
"Rodents eat their young."

"What does that mean?"

"Rodents eat their own."

"You're saying Judge Wood was a rodent?"

"Yes."

"Who ate her, E?"

But E had spent his words.
 
Like a child, he turned his back on Marty, folded his arms around himself and behaved as if he'd offer nothing more.